


Rapture

by unreliablefairyservant



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Dubious Consent, Lost Hope, M/M, Mind Manipulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-16
Updated: 2015-08-16
Packaged: 2018-04-14 22:23:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4582356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unreliablefairyservant/pseuds/unreliablefairyservant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the gentleman with the thistle-down hair decides that John Segundus would be much happier at Lost-Hope</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rapture

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for a prompt on the JS&MN kinkmeme

 

It's not unusual for John Segundus to lie awake at night. He has always been a light sleeper, even more so since Lady Pole came to stay at Starecross. Every sound made by the old building has him wondering if her ladyship is safe, sound, if he is needed – and old houses tend to make a lot of noises at night. Segundus knows that his worry is really most unfounded, as Her Ladyship has been a sound sleeper ever since first coming to Starecross. Indeed, she seems more at peace in sleep than she ever does awake, as if in sleep she is granted some respite from whatever dark thoughts plague her in the daytime. Still. He frets.

And then comes that horrible night when Her Ladyship awakes in a frenzy, imploring Mr. Honeyfoot and him to send word to Mr. Strange, and Segundus is for once grateful that he is not a heavy sleeper. Happy to be able to rush out of bed and put his clothes on without being impeded by the disorientation that a heavy sleep brings to so many men. Happy that his unfortunate affliction at last has done him some good. He does not sleep any easier after that.

A couple of nights after Mr. Honeyfoot suggests that they look into the stories that Lady Pole tells, Segundus lies awake again. He has been sleeping on and off through the night, and judging by the faint light outside his window it is now late enough to be early. In the daze between sleep and waking, he hears a sound. Is is intangible enough that it may well have come from his dream, and Segundus is very well aware that he will not get any more sleep if he leaves his bed at this hour, but the incident of a few nights ago won't leave his thoughts. He shakes his head to clear it, listens carefully for another sound.

And then he hears it again – the sound of a bell. Hearing it brings about the most perplexing emotions in him; he finds himself thinking on all the dreams he ever nurtured that did not come to fruition, of all the people he ever loved and lost. The sound is unlike any bell Segundus has ever heard before, and he is quite certain there is no bell at Starecross capable of making a sound anything at all like it.

What can he do? The thought will not leave him, and so he rises from his bed, dresses hastily, and goes in search of the mysterious bell.

The house is sleeping and silent. Segundus is starting to think that maybe he imagined the sound after all when he turns a corner close to the dining room and hears it again. Now it brings to him that irrational fear that can come over certain people in late winter, that perhaps there will be no spring this year. It is as if the world will stay silent and dark forever. The thoughts close in on him like dark trees and he quickens his pace, hoping to locate the source of the sound before it disappears. Maybe it had come from the dining room? He approaches the door, steps inside, and the world takes a half-spin.

There's a gentleman standing by the window. Tall, pale, handsome, he's dressed in a leaf-green coat that looks very finely tailored, but his most striking feature is his hair. There is a lot of it. It is light enough to look white in the early morning light – perhaps it even is – and it brings to Segundus' mind the thistles that had taken over Starecross' garden while the place stood empty, turning the space into an indistinct white cloud. It had taken weeks for them to make the garden presentable.

The gentleman turns around when Segundus enters the room and looks him up and down slowly. Segundus becomes acutely aware of the button that has come loose on his waistcoat and the scuffed boots he keeps telling himself he will replace, soon – only there have been so many other things to think of, and he has never gotten used to not being a poor man.

“Can I help you sir?” he ventures, at a loss for what else to say. It is not very often that a stranger shows up in one's house in the middle of the night, after all.

“Are you the master of this house?” asks the gentleman. “A friend of Lady Pole's?”

Segundus is hesitant to claim either of those epithets, though he hopes that Lady Pole will come to consider him a friend, in time. He says this to the gentleman, who frowns at him. Not the answer he wanted then. Segundus takes a step forward and stretches out his hand.

“I am John Segundus,” he says. “Lady Pole's caretaker.”

Something about this seems to amuse the gentleman. He flashes a smile and raises a perfect eyebrow. “Are you indeed?” he says. The gentleman makes no move to take Segundus' proffered hand, nor does he introduce himself in turn. He simply looks at Segundus and says, “well, you would certainly look a picture beside her.”

“Sir,” says Segundus, fumbling for some hold of the situation, “I hope you don't mind me asking, but what is your business here?”

“Oh, to have a look on the people that Lady Pole spends her days with of course! She is a _dear_ friend of mine, I need to know that her company is suitable.” The gentleman pauses, looks Segundus over again. “Rest assured,” he continues, “I'm quite satisfied with what I've seen.”

Segundus can't shake the feeling that he is being examined much like a piece of art, or a new carpet that one is considering for one's home. It is a most peculiar feeling. He is beginning to find it a touch alarming, but then the strange bell chimes again and he decides that it is not after all so extra-ordinary to have well dressed strangers appear in one's dining room in the small hours of the morning. In fact, it is starting to feel like the most natural thing in the world.

He is just about to say something about the bell when there is a noise behind him. Segundus turns around to see one of the maids coming into the dining room, presumably to light the morning fire.

“Oh! Good morning Mr. Segundus!” she says. “You gave me quite the fright, I thought you were still in bed.”

“I was,” begins Segundus, but he falters. Something has changed. He looks around the room, now empty but for himself and the maid. “There was … a person.” But the memory is slipping from him like a dream upon waking, it's like trying to hold on to water, and he can no longer recall what the person looked like, or what they were talking about.

“You must excuse me,” he says, slightly shaken. “I rather believe I must have been sleepwalking.”

 

* * *

 

For a few days, nothing out of the ordinary happens. Lady Pole takes her meals, sits long hours by the window and, weather permitting, takes the occassional short walk around the garden. But Segundus has a hard time shaking the sensation that something very strange is going on. He suffers dizzy spells more frequently than usual, at one time even losing his balance as something in his head tells him that the stairs he is descending are simultaneously the same stairs they have always been, and a staircase that seems to go on for miles. The house seems to change around him at unexpected moments, and he can never quite rid himself of the idea that he is not in one house at all, but in two.

Then one day he is walking alone in the garden. Lady Pole has elected to stay indoors, complaining of the pains and aches in her body that she describes as “from dancing all night”, and Mr. Honeyfoot has stayed behind to keep an eye on her. As he is walking, Segundus starts to feel another of his dizzy spells coming on, and he hurries to reach the little bench at the bottom of the garden before it gets too bad. He sits down, head in hands, world spinning, and becomes aware that he isn't alone.

There's a gentleman sitting next to him on the bench, and Segundus has the distinct impression that he has seen him before. In a dream, perhaps. It is fortunate that he is already sitting down, for the unexpectedness of it makes his dizzy spell worse, and he fears a swoon. He has been quite certain that he is awake, but now he is starting to wonder if he ought perhaps to pinch himself. When the gentleman speaks, it is sudden, and Segundus can feel his heart skip a beat.

“You must get bored out here. So far from any civilized entertainment.”

Segundus tries to collect his thoughts. They seem to be moving slower than usual. “Oh no sir, not at all,” he says. “Lady Pole is my first priority, and when she does not need me, I have my books. It is quite to my liking.”

“Books?” the gentleman's voice is a scoff. “How dreary. And that companion of yours.” The gentleman makes a face and Segundus can only assume he is referring to Mr. Honeyfoot.

“Don't you wish you could spend your time in more suitable company? Among people who would truly appreciate you?”

“I don't follow, sir,” says Segundus. He tries to make his voice sharper than usual, tries to convey his displeasure in as few words as possible, but the gentleman seems oblivious to it. This is not a conversation as much as it is a monologue.

“You shouldn't be spending your nights hunched over dry old books,” the gentleman says, hands animated. “You're not nearly dry and old enough to relegate yourself to a fate like that. No, you should come to my house.” A fraction of a pause. “In fact, I insist!”

Segundus wants to protest. He wants to be cutting, in defense of his friend, wants to say that he wouldn't think it entirely appropriate for Lady Pole's caretaker to visit with one of her friends – if that indeed is what he is. But the gentleman stands up and pulls him from the bench, the world whirls in front of them and then they are no longer at the bottom of Starecross' garden. Instead, Segundus stands on a tree-lined path leading into a forest, Starecross and its surroundings nowhere to be seen.

This is the moment when Segundus ought to realise with absolute certainty that what is happening around him is magic. Perhaps something is scratching at his mind, telling him there is something he should know, remember. But there's also a heavy fog across his thoughts, muffling them, distorting them. There must be a reasonable explanation for why he doesn't know how he ended up on the tree-lined path. He must have simply drifted off on the walk, not realised how far they had come. Never mind that he has never seen the tree-lined path before in his life. After a slight pause, he follows the gentleman into the forest.

 

* * *

 

They're at the gentleman's house before he knows it; a beautiful manor lit with hundreds of candles, decorated for a dance (though out of the corner of his eye, the mansion looks strangely dilapitated, dark, the candles not nearly enough to light all its dark corners). There are people everywhere, finely dressed, seemingly waiting for the festivities to begin, and Segundus is acutely aware of the fact that he is in no way dressed for an occasion like this. But the gentleman seems to have anticipated this.

“First of all,” he says, “we shall have to do something about your clothes.” And he guides Segundus to a dressing-room where two servants appear, carrying bundles of clothes. There is something unsettling about the servants. For a moment it seems to Segundus that their faces are less like human faces and more like the faces of a fox and a badger – dark eyes, sharp teeth and a hint of coloured fur across the brow. And then – before he can voice his astonishment, they look perfectly normal, have always looked perfectly normal.

The gentleman leaves him alone with the servants then, and they move in close, closer than he is comfortable with. He hasn't been dressed by someone else since he was a child, has never seen the need, nor had the funds for a manservant. He would say this, ask the servants to just leave the clothes with him, he will take care of it – but they move quickly, fast enough that he is out of his shirt, shivering, before he knows it. And then he is being helped into new clothes, beautiful enough to make him forget his awkwardness.

The new fabrics are like nothing he has ever worn before. Instead of silks and linens, it seems to Segundus that he is being dressed in moonbeams and whispers – breeches of a dazzling white like starlight, a waistcoat of pale, shimmering gold (the colour of elegance, the servants assure him), a tail-coat in a fabric of the darkest midnight blue, that seems to him almost to be made out of a patch of starless night sky. His reflection in the mirror seems for a moment to be that of a prince, and the thought is foreign enough to make him blush. There's not a trace of the person who teetered on the edge of poverty for so many years.

Once dressed, Segundus is ushered into a grand ballroom where it seems the dance has just begun. Ladies and gentlemen in the most amazing clothes are soon whirling about in a dance completely unfamiliar to him (not that he has had much experience with dancing), and he finds himself swept up in it. His feet seem to know the steps if only he lets go, and so he tries not to think too much. If his dancing partner seems to be wearing a wig of shining beetles, well, who is he to judge. Faces flash by, one or two of them strangely familiar, but the dance speeds up and he loses track of them, loses all sense of time passing in favour of music and movement. When the dance slows down, draws to a close, days as well as minutes might have passed.

The crowd scatters, reforms, arranges itself into smaller groups, and Segundus goes wandering. He feels drunk, dazed, though he has no recollection of drinking anything since his arrival. No, it must have been the dancing, perhaps the strange beauty all around him. The disorientation of everything seeming different out of the corner of his eye. Maybe it is time for him to go home. After all, he knows no one here. But the manor twists and turns and he cannot figure out how to get back to the main door. Instead, he finds an empty room, and he finds the gentleman.

“Thank you for the dance, sir,” says Segundus. “It was quite lovely.”

The gentleman smiles, a sharp glint in his eye. “Wasn't it just!” he says. “Much more entertaining than old books, I'm sure you agree.”

Segundus is not sure he agrees, but he does not voice this. Given the circumstances, it feels like it would be impolite. The gentleman beckons him further into the room and he obliges; behind him, the door clicks shut. It is a startling sound, making him feel, for reasons he can't fully express, that he has been trapped. The gentleman steps closer to him, eyes raking over him, close enough now that Segundus thinks he can feel cool breath on his face. The proximity makes him shiver.

“Really, I feel quite sorry for you, spending your nights in front of old books instead of dancing, here, where everyone is young and beautiful.” The gentleman looks at Segundus thoughtfully, before adding, “like you.”

Segundus feels his face flushing. “I really couldn't claim–“ he begins, but the gentleman silences him, an invasion of space, a finger across Segundus' lips. “Hush,” he says.

The touch sends the strangest sensation through Segundus. A tingling sparkle, like the way cider tickles the tongue, only it spreads across his skin, making his heartbeat quicken, his knees grow weak. A smile plays on the gentleman's lips and Segundus thinks he must be quite aware of the effect his touch has.

“Now,” says the gentleman, lifting his finger. “Wouldn't you _much_ rather stay here than go back to that drab place where no-one appreciates you?”

Segundus nods slowly. For the moment, he can't quite figure out what drab place the gentleman is referring to, but of course he would like to stay here, in this beautiful place. Why should he want to be anywhere else?

“Good!” says the gentleman. “There are _so_ many more enjoyable things to be doing with your time than sit around all day and read books.”

Books. Something flickers in Segundus' mind. He likes books. Doesn't he? He is about to mention this, but the gentleman's hands are on him again, moving along the lines of buttons on his tail-coat and it awakens something dark and thirsty in Segundus that he is quite unprepared for.

“This coat suits you beautifully,” says the gentleman. “Not everyone looks so good in pure midnight, but with your dark hair and fair skin you were born to wear it.” His gaze burns where it lands. Segundus swallows, his heart a bird trapped in his chest. “It really is most unfair that you should have had to wait so long before having the opportunity.” The gentleman moves to stand behind Segundus now, breathing cool air upon his neck, and Segundus thinks that maybe he ought to protest as long-fingered hands fall on his shoulders, move along his arms, but his thoughts move so slowly and now the gentleman is talking again.

“But no matter,” he says. “From now on you shall have many opportunities to wear the very finest of colours and materials.” His hands move to Segundus' waist and hold him there for a second. Segundus thinks he can almost feel the gentleman's heart beating in the tiny space between their bodies.

“Let me assist you,” says the gentleman's voice close to his ear, and before Segundus can sift through the fog, find the words to reply, nimble fingers are unbuttoning his tail-coat and pushing it off his shoulders. The only thought sharp enough to cut through the fog in Segundus' mind is what a shame it is to let such a beautiful garment fall upon the floor.

Before he can say anything about this, the gentleman's hands are back at his arms, and feeling the touch through only the soft fabric of his shirt is enough to send another shiver through Segundus. His eyes flutter closed. In some part of his mind he is aware of his body reacting to the touch, to the proximity of another person, the intimacy of being disrobed, but he can't sort through his impressions, can't figure out if this is appropriate or not. His waistcoat, too, is unbuttoned and pushed off his shoulders. Soft breath on his neck, his head gently tilted to one side, and then the gentleman's lips are at his neck, right below his left ear, and Segundus realises that the low moan he can hear has come from his own throat. His eyes fly open.

“Sir!” he breathes. “This is most inappropriate, I must ask that you...” but the gentleman interrupts him again, a hand reaching around, pale finger coming to rest once again across his lips. The sound of a bell, the scent of lilacs, he couldn't say where these impressions come from. When the gentleman speaks, it's in a whisper, breath tickling Segundus' ear.

“Do you truly wish for me to stop?” he says. And Segundus finds that he does not. He relaxes back, allows cool hands to roam his body, pull his shirt from his breeches, taste skin. Fingers tracing the front of his breeches, where he twitches at the touch, and _oh_. Their bodies are even closer now, a hardness mimicking his own pressed against him.

Dazed, he can only comply when the gentleman takes him by the shoulders, turns him around so they are facing one another. The gentleman grabs him by the chin, pulls him in for a kiss, and there is no gentleness to his touch. The kiss is searing, almost violent, and Segundus gasps into it, allowing the gentleman's tongue to dart out to meet his. He melts into it then, feels the quirk of a smile under his lips, the hand at his chin coming back to cradle his head. When the gentleman releases him, Segundus is quite out of breath, craving touch, and his heart is beating, beating.

A pale thumb caressing his cheek, tracing his lips, seeking entrance to his mouth and he lets it. Allows it in behind his teeth where he keeps his words, his secrets, and he can feel them come tumbling to the surface. He says nothing, yet _feels_ that the gentleman now knows all there is to know of him; scraped childhood knees and the first time he saw the sea, fumbling encounters with other boys at school, that time behind the potting shed (afterwards he fell, he still has a scar on his hand). And the gentleman, smiling, always smiling. “So you do know a thing or two.” His hand travels back to Segundus' chin and Segundus thinks he must have made a sound because he can feel it vibrating in his throat.

His words have all left him. He couldn't speak if his life depended on it (does it?). A new memory floats to the surface, summoned, and Segundus blushes. Him on his knees, patterned carpet, the other man's hands in Segundus' hair. How he tasted. He tries to look away but the grip on his chin is like iron. When he looks up, it is right into the gentleman's eyes, a flame of fire, and it takes his breath away.

It's two steps to the wall and time slows down, speeds up – he couldn't say which. Only knows want, contact, hands at his wrists, pinning them. That trapped bird in his chest is making its presence known again, his throat tightening, but there's that lilac scent and it overtakes his senses, making him unable to think of anything but lips at his throat, delicious friction where they grind together; his breath in short gasps, caught between apprehension and something else.

His breeches are undone now, that tight, constricting _pressure_ gone and he moans as a cool hand closes around him; the touch too light, unbearable, then more and that too is unbearable. His own hands, freed now, questioning at the gentleman's breeches and he is rewarded with a burning kiss that means _yes_ and the twist of a hand at his cock. Forehead to forehead as he grows bolder, undoes buttons, removes the gentleman's hand and wraps his own around them both. For a while there's nothing in the world except the way they move and breathe against each other, the gentleman's hands at his shoulders, his own lips now on the gentleman's lily-white skin. And then, the memory of that burning gaze etched on his mind, Segundus sinks to his knees. The gentleman's hand on his cheek too unrelenting to be tender as it follows him down, nestles in his hair.

The taste of him is unexpectedly normal, when nothing else about him is, but there's something _more_ to it, undefinable. As Segundus takes him in his mouth the gentleman murmurs something, a string of words that Segundus can't quite make out. _Dulcissimus_ perhaps, _basiare_. The cadence of the language makes it sound almost like an incantation. He applies himself, lifts his gaze to half-lidded eyes, a slow groan from the gentleman when Segundus pulls away ever so slightly to circle his tongue just like so.

After that it's not so very long before the grip on his hair tightens, setting the pace for him, before breath quickens and, finally, before the gentleman finds his release. The air seems to crackle as Segundus swallows around him. And the gentleman sinks down next to him to claim a kiss and take him in hand, whispering to him in English now, or so Segundus thinks. Something about how good he is, how lovely, but he can't quite put the words together in a way that makes sense and he can't think, can't breathe and it's a few more strokes before he too tenses up and spends himself. A hand still in his hair, strangely soothing. Around him, the room seems darker than it was, but he's not sure it matters. All thoughts of going home forgotten, nothing else is important. Only this.

 


End file.
